The Girl
by gwybodaeth
Summary: Another story inspired by Nancy Drew: The Silent Spy. We were with Nancy through the whole adventure, but what was it like from Zoe's point-of-view? And what if the professional had turned personal? One-sided Nancy/Zoe. Oblique femslash. Don't like, don't read.


In retrospect, it was uncomfortably obvious that her judgment had been shot from the very beginning.

Really, pulling Bridget out of her bag of tricks should have been all the tipoff she needed. Bridget had never been a serious cover, just a joke she had come up with to amuse her fellow agents one distant, tipsy night at the 'Company Bar & Grille'. She'd had a standard cover worked up and ready to go—a fellow lone American traveler, desperate for some contact from home.

Then she'd come face-to-face with the girl, and immediately forgotten even the most basic details of her extensive cover. Instead, out had come a fake accent so bad she had to struggle not to give in to hysteria and start laughing uncontrollably. That would've ended well. So she fled, as quick as she could, to the courtyard where she managed to calm herself and dredge up some semblance of a backstory by the time the inquisitive young women inevitably came looking for her.

* * *

Things had not improved from there. Her attempts to fish for information were amateurish at best, and she managed to extract a whole lot of nothing from her chatty subject. And it wasn't like there hadn't been plenty of opportunity.

The girl never stopped talking, or, more accurately, _questioning_. Every other phrase out of her mouth was a question, many of which she had felt a disturbing desire to answer. Normally, this wouldn't have been a problem. Asking questions or not, all that really mattered was that a subject was willing to engage, and by seeming to answer the questions, one could psychologically suggest a norm of quid pro quo.

But that smooth alto voice had gotten under her skin. Bright, confident, it had utterly beguiled her, unknowingly shooting down every ploy she even considered using. It hurt her professional pride to admit that, after the first few minutes, most of her didn't really care about getting answers. All that mattered was that the girl kept talking.

* * *

The first time she heard the sound of an arrow whistling through the air, she was sure she was going crazy. The second time, she actually remembered to look _up_.

She barely stopped herself from giving in to the urge to do a face-palm. Honestly, could she act any more like a rookie? The first time she heard the sound, she had forgotten that humans rarely look up when they search for something. Despite her mistake, she was very grateful for that fact now.

It was the only thing that kept a courtyard full of people from witnessing the amusing and alarming sight of a woman bungling her way along a zipline to break into somebody else's room. In _broad fucking daylight_. At _noon_ on a _Saturday_, no less.

She couldn't help it. She let out one hearty, most unladylike snort and fell onto the bench behind her.

* * *

It took her an embarrassingly long time to find it.

It was so out-of-place, it might as well have had a neon sign above it, reading 'LOOK RIGHT HERE!' It had to be at least three inches long, possibly the most unconvincing insect she had ever seen. It was especially noticeable, since she always left her window closed.

For a moment, she considered doing what she would have done had it been a real bug—smashing it, the flowers, the vase, and possibly the table to dust. But then she reconsidered, a small smile creeping onto her face as she took out her mobile.

The girl had worked so hard…

"…From where I come, there I go."

Now it was time to see what the girl could really do. Back in the courtyard, she thought for a moment, and then got out her mobile again. This should make for some priceless home video.

* * *

_Well, that was stupid_.

Her inner voice insisted on berating her, even over the noise of the trash compacter she was stuck in.

She was supposed to be a professional, supposed to be detached, supposed to get the job done. Instead, she had decided, on a whim, to give the girl the tools to prove herself. What she had actually done was given her enough rope to hang them both.

And now they were going to die.

_And the worst part is, my foot is stuck, so I can't even give Nancy a real—_

She cut that line of thinking down at the knees. To keep her mind occupied, she started describing, in gruesome detail, just what was about to happen. Anything not to think about Nancy's lips—

And then they were free. She had done it. Nan—_the girl _—had actually gotten them out. But those strange urges were still there…

* * *

She liked the girl, no question about it now. But she was a professional. She would be professional, _damn it!_ And so she did what she had been trained to do—she exploited her new asset.

She hoisted the fakest smile she had ever given onto her face, and set about trying to salvage _something_ from an operation that had long since gone all to hell. She needed every resource she could get to stop the terrorist attack she was sure was underway.

And so she used the girl.

And if she felt guilty for the first time in her career—well, that was just tough.

* * *

Her communications device shorted. And there was a bomb in the room with her. A _bomb_…in the _room_…_with_…_her._

She was _not _going to be sick.

At that close range, the girl—Nancy—wouldn't just get sick. The explosive blast would simply kill her.

All right, she was going to be a little sick.

* * *

She recovered, wiped her mouth on the back of her sleeve, and got her comms working just in time to hear:

"I defused the bomb."

She felt relieved, giddy, euphoric. Nancy—_her_ Nancy—was all right! Feeling suddenly weak, she babbled into the mic by her face.

And then she cringed. Her last words to Nancy and all she could manage was a Scottish-accented '_Oh, hello, me dear_'? She would have to do better. She smiled. She definitely would do better.

It would have to wait, though—Alec's sister needed rescuing, and Revenant would have to be shut down for good. Sighing, she went through the familiar routine of setting aside the personal for the job.

But she promised herself that this time, it wouldn't be forever.


End file.
